Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “Ripping, isn’t it?” said the gratified Knight. “Don’t let him look so pleased, Pope; Hawker is a hard nut to crack.”

  Mr. Hawker, a wiry figure in a bowler hat and mustard-coloured gaiters, came forward to meet them as the car stopped. A pleasant faced man, but with a glint in his eye that put all Mr. Pope’s faculties on the alert.

  “Good job Carstairs has got you to look after him,” murmured Knight in his ear as they dismounted.

  Mr. Pope grinned, and endeavoured, but in vain, to throw off the arm linked in his. He even went so far as to call the owner a serpent, but Mr. Knight, who was at the moment introducing Mr. Carstairs, paid no heed.

  It was a beautiful house, and Carstairs, to his secretary’s horror, promptly said so. In these circumstances there was nothing for Mr. Pope to do but to call attention to the time-worn brickwork. He also pointed out that one of the gables was a little bit out of plumb.

  “Very nice to look at, of course,” he said, shaking his head, as they passed slowly along the terrace. “I remember once being much impressed by the ruins of an old castle in Scotland.”

  “Ah, if you want ruins,” said Mr. Hawker, “I’m afraid you will be disappointed here. The house is in a splendid state of preservation.”

  “Any ghosts?” inquired Pope.

  Mr. Hawker hesitated; some people like ghosts, others have an insurmountable objection to them.

  “It looks too comfortable for a ghost,” he said, with a laugh. “Do you believe in them?”

  “Certainly not,” said Pope disdainfully.

  “There is no ghost here,” said Hawker promptly. “Shall we go inside now, while the light is good?”

  He led the way in, and left the old, oak-panelled hall, with its huge, open fireplace, to speak for itself. A wood fire crackled and blazed on the hearth.

  “I thought it would look comfortable,” said Mr. Hawker.

  Mr. Pope, with his back to the blaze, nodded benignly. Then he intercepted a faint grin passing from Mr. Knight to Mr. Peplow.

  “You thought so too, Knight?” he said loudly.

  “I think so,” corrected the young man in a surprised voice. “But, my dear Pope, think of this hall furnished! Old chests, old chairs — not too old to be comfortable — Persian rugs, drinks, cigars—”

  “Draughts,” interposed Mr. Pope.

  “Fresh air,” said Knight. “Come along, there’s a lot to see. And after the house there is the glass, and the stables, and the lake.”

  They wandered through the house, Mr. Knight hastily furnishing each room in a few well-chosen words as they inspected it. A suite of three rooms with a magnificent view he allotted to Mr. Pope. He laid stress on the fact that the principal one contained a fireplace big enough to roast an ox.

  “It’s a nice house,” said Carstairs to him, as they all trooped downstairs again.” Yes, all right; I have admired the staircase once — and if you will give me your word of honour never to visit me or worry me with your matrimonial projects I might think of taking it.”

  “I’ll promise never to come unless I am asked,” said the young man stiffly.

  “I’m afraid that’s no good,” said Carstairs, smiling. “You must promise not to come when you are asked.”

  Mr. Knight’s face relaxed. “You’re a good sort, Carstairs,” he said blithely. “Bit too fond of rotting; but we can’t all be perfect. Pope must have got a soft spot in his heart for me too. He said the other day that he wished he had been my father.”

  The air struck chill and the light was fading as they got outside. It was damp underfoot, and the much-vaunted lake looked drear and cold. Effects on the water, pointed out by Messrs. Hawker and Knight, only elicited a shiver from Mr. Pope.

  “Most depressing,” he declared.” Let’s get back and have some tea. We shall be frozen getting back to town.”

  He turned and led the way to the car, while the lodge-keeper, who had been hovering near the party, touched his cap to Carstairs and asked permission to favour him with a few biographical details concerning the best man he ever knew. It was an inspiring theme, but the party waiting in the car began to murmur at the length of it. He turned away with a smile at last and moved off with a springy step.

  “Want the job?” inquired Knight, as Carstairs took a seat beside him.

  Carstairs nodded.

  “What did you tell him?” inquired the other, as the car whirled down the drive.

  “Told him ‘Yes,’ of course,” said Carstairs. “Poor chap, he has been in a state of anxiety for nine months. He’s been here seventeen years. What are you laughing at?”

  “Nothing,” said Knight. “It wasn’t a laugh; it was a gratified smile at hearing you have decided to take the place.”

  “Subject to coming to terms, yes,” said Carstairs. “But that is Pope’s job. Pope versus Hawker. You were quite right, Knight; it’s a beautiful place, and I’m glad I came to see it.”

  “Few men would admit themselves to have been in the wrong as freely as you do,” said Knight gravely. “Freddie!”

  “Halloa!” said Mr. Peplow.

  “He’s hooked!”

  Mr. Peplow started, and then turned to Mr. Carstairs with a glance of protest at his friend’s rudeness.

  “That’s all right,” said Knight. “You needn’t look like a little plaster saint. Remember what you said about him last night.”

  “I?” stammered the distressed Peplow. “I assure you, Mr. Carstairs—”

  “He’s always like that,” said Knight calmly; “he lets me fight his battles for him, and then tries to pass by on the other side. Fortunately, my character is strong enough for both. Here we are, and now for a cup of Pope-reviving tea. Hot and strong, with two lumps of sugar.”

  Mr. Pope subsided into his easy-chair with a sigh of relief and extended his hands to the blaze. Tea appeared on the table, but he refused to move, and taking cup after cup in his cosy corner gradually thawed into a heavy geniality. He even joined in the chorus of praise of the house, comparing it favourably with others of three inches by two that he had seen in advertisements. In reply to a challenge of Knight’s he declared himself a match for Hawker any day.

  “So long as you fix it up I don’t mind who wins,” said Knight. “Carstairs has got plenty of money. Have you finished, Freddie?” he inquired, with a significant glance; “because if so you had better come down and see the landlord about that dog you were talking about.”

  Mr. Peplow, exhibiting more confusion than the occasion seemed to warrant, arose, and, with a glance at Carstairs, followed his friend out of the room. Mr. Pope, declining another cup of tea, lit a cigarette and smoked on in silence.

  “Nice boys,” said Carstairs, breaking a long silence.

  Pope grunted. “Might be worse,” he said at last. “Pity Knight couldn’t have had the advantage of a training at the bank. If he had gone in, say at eighteen, under me, he would have been a different man altogether.”

  Carstairs agreed, and, drawing his chair up, sat gazing at the fire. Pope finished his cigarette, and, throwing the stub into the grate, closed his eyes and fell into a light doze.

  He awoke after some time, and, rubbing his eyes, sat up blinking at his friend. Then he looked at the clock.

  “Good gracious!” he said, with a start. “It’s time we were off. Where are those boys?”

  Carstairs shook his head. “Still discussing the dog, I suppose,” he said.

  “I’ll go and hurry them up,” said Pope.

  He went heavily downstairs, to reappear in five minutes’ time with the landlord.

  “They didn’t say anything to me about a dog,” said the latter. “They went out about half an hour ago, and they said if anybody asked for them they had gone out to look at the moon.”

  “Moon!” repeated Mr. Pope sharply. “But there is no moon.”

  “Just what I told ’em,” said the landlord. “And Mr. Knight said, ‘No, he knew that, and they were going out to see what had become of it.’”


  Carstairs coughed and looked at Pope.

  “It would serve ’em right—” he began slowly.

  “Eh?” said Pope.

  Their eyes met, and the hard lines in Pope’s face melted into a huge grin.

  “Let me have my car as soon as possible,” said Carstairs, turning to the landlord; “and when those two gentlemen come back tell them we couldn’t wait.”

  “Tell ’em we have ‘shot the moon,’” added Pope, with a noisy chuckle. “Hurry up!”

  He clapped Carstairs on the shoulder as the landlord withdrew, and both gentlemen, in a state of glee somewhat unsuited to their years, proceeded to array themselves for the journey. Pope held his friend’s coat for him and placed it almost tenderly about his shoulders. Mr. Carstairs, after Pope had wound a huge muffler about his throat, thoughtfully pulled up his coat-collar for him.

  “I hope the landlord won’t forget that bit about ‘shooting the moon,’” said Pope, as they almost danced downstairs. “I should like to see Knight’s face; but you can’t have everything.”

  They stopped in front of the cosy bar, and at Pope’s suggestion ordered a couple of glasses of cherry brandy to keep out the cold.

  “Car ready?” he inquired, as the landlord came in from the back.

  “Can’t find the chauffeur, sir,” said the landlord. “He’s nowhere on the premises, but I’ve sent the ostler up the street to look for him.”

  Mr. Pope, with his glass midway to his mouth, turned pale and put it down on the counter again, while the landlord turned to renew the search — apparently in the coal-shed. Mr. Carstairs emptied his glass, and both gentlemen, with lagging steps, ascended the stairs again.

  “Youth must be served, “quoted Carstairs, as he proceeded to unwrap himself.

  “I wish I had the serving of him,” grunted the other. “Of all the young jackanapes—”

  He turned away as he saw Carstairs’ lips twitch, and after a hopeless attempt to maintain his dignity began to laugh too. Restored to good-humour, he poked the fire, and, putting his feet on the fender, sat down to wait.

  Half an hour later a murmur of voices below announced the return of the truants. The landlord’s voice was heard above the others, then a smothered laugh, apparently from Mr. Knight, and a startled “H’sh!” which the reddening Pope rightly attributed to Mr. Peplow.

  “Landlord’s given them your message,” said Carstairs.

  “Hope we haven’t kept you waiting?” said Knight, politely, as he entered the room, followed by a shadowy Peplow.

  “We have been waiting an hour and a half,” said Carstairs.

  “Sorry,” said Knight. “Didn’t seem more than five minutes to us, did it, Freddie?”

  “I — I thought we had been about a quarter of an hour,” said Mr. Peplow, “or perhaps twenty minutes.”

  Mr. Knight looked from Carstairs to Pope and from Pope to Carstairs.

  “Sorry,” he said again, with dignity, “but you know our object in coming down here, Carstairs, and, having missed the afternoon looking after your business, we thought we might take ten minutes for our own.”

  Carstairs looked helplessly at Pope. “My business?” he said at last.

  “Helping you to choose a house,” explained Knight.

  “And what did you take Biggs away with you for?” demanded Carstairs.

  “Out of deference to your prejudices,” said Knight promptly. “Freddie thought—”

  “I didn’t,” interrupted Mr. Peplow, hastily.

  “Freddie thought,” repeated Mr. Knight firmly, “that you and Pope, being mid-Victorians, would have old-fashioned notions about that sort of thing, so we took Biggs to chaperon us, and, in justice to him, I must say that we told him to come with us to take something back to you. He has just asked me what it was.”

  “What was it?” inquired Carstairs, staring.

  “A report of our immaculate behaviour,” said Knight. “Lady Penrose’s maid was with them, and he kept her company in her duties.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” said Pope, rising and picking up his overcoat.

  “Besides, it was a precautionary measure,” added Knight.

  Pope stopped with one arm in a sleeve and stared at him.

  “Neither of you being able to drive,” explained Knight, with an abominable grin.

  CHAPTER IV

  MR. HAWKER, in a moment of frankness caused by despondency, admitted that he had met his match in Mr. Pope; after which the negotiations for the tenancy of Berstead Place progressed with great smoothness. The lawyers on both sides raised various points, but nothing that consultations and letters could not adjust to the satisfaction of all concerned. In the exercise of his duties Pope paid frequent visits to Carstairs’ lawyers, a remark of the junior partner, a somewhat excitable person, to the effect that it was a pity Pope had not been brought up to the law, giving him great satisfaction until, in an ill moment for his peace of mind, he repeated it to the evil-minded Knight.

  The lease was signed at last, and the house put into the hands of a well-known firm of builders, decorations proceeding with the slowness characteristic of good work and the ideals of the English workman.

  “Trying to hurry them is no good,” announced Mr. Pope, coming out of the house with a somewhat flushed face, on a fine afternoon in February, “and sarcasm is simply thrown away on them. One little rat of a painter actually asked me whether I had ever been on the music-halls. Me!”

  “I know the man you mean,” said Carstairs. “I stood looking at him the other day for a quarter of an hour and he never moved a muscle. However, they will finish some time, in spite of their efforts. Suppose we walk back and meet the car.”

  It was damp underfoot, but the air was soft and warm, and birds of an optimistic turn of mind were already beginning to sing the praises of spring. The two friends tramped on pleasantly until they reached the village, and, proceeding along the High Street, gazed with some curiosity at a little crowd at the other end of it.

  “Looks like our car,” said Pope, quickening his pace.

  It was their car, and their chauffeur with a piece of borrowed string was taking painstaking measurements of the distance of his wheels from the footpath. His job finished, he proceeded quite unasked to perform the same office for a damaged governess-car that stood near by on one wheel. A neatly shaved young groom, standing at his horse’s head, watched him with calm disdain.

  “What is the matter?” inquired Carstairs, stepping forward.

  “Young lad and a young horse, sir,” said Biggs, respectfully, but loudly. “Came right across the road into my off mudguard. Look at it!”

  Carstairs glanced at the crumpled metal, and then looked at the shattered wheel of the trap.

  “Anybody hurt?” he inquired.

  Mr. Biggs stood reflecting. “I don’t think so,” he observed calmly. “It wasn’t his fault if they weren’t; he did his best. Come right across the road; I s’pose he pulled the wrong rein.”

  Carstairs looked round inquiringly. A handsome, smartly dressed woman of about thirty-five stood on the footpath with a pretty girl. From a certain air of detached interest they manifested in the proceedings he came to the conclusion that the trap belonged to them.

  “I hope you are not hurt!” he said, raising his cap.

  “Fortunately — no,” was the reply.

  “Or shaken?”

  A little colour appeared in the lady’s cheek. “One can hardly be shot out of a cart without,” she said tartly.

  Few men can gaze on beauty in distress unmoved. “You must have been driving very carelessly, Biggs!” exclaimed Carstairs.

  “Yessir,” said Biggs respectfully.

  “You might have killed these ladies.”

  Biggs twisted his features into an expression of concern. “Yessir,” he said again.

  “I was only a foot from the kerb. I couldn’t give ’em much more room.”

  “He put his hand up,” said an old man standing by. “I see
him do it. You ought to ha’ stopped.”

  “You ought to be in bed,” said Biggs, in a low voice, as he edged up to him. “You oughtn’t to be out with eyes like them. It ain’t safe.”

  “I’m afraid we are to blame,” said Carstairs, “but I am delighted to see that nobody has been injured. May I give you my address?”

  He took out his case and, extracting a card, handed it to the owner of the trap. The girl leaned forward to read it, and then, looking up at Carstairs, favoured him with a dazzling smile. Her companion, placing the card in her purse, bowed and turned away.

  “And if you would permit me to send you home,” said Carstairs, “my car is at your disposal. Please take it.”

  “He is really a good driver,” said Pope, joining in the conversation. “You would be quite safe.”

  “Thanks very much, but we are quite able to walk,” said the lady.

  “I don’t know,” said the girl gravely, with another glance at Carstairs. “I’d sooner ride, Isabel, if you don’t mind. I feel just a wee bit tottery.”

  Her companion hesitated. Carstairs held the door open, and, after another moment’s hesitation, she stepped in and seated herself.

  “Very kind of you,” she said, smiling. “It isn’t far; you won’t have to wait long.” Mr. Biggs, who was having a heart-to-heart talk with the groom, tore himself away with visible reluctance.

  “Why don’t you hold him properly?” he said, alluding to the horse. “He’s wiped his nose once on your sleeve already.”

  The wheelwright came up after the car had gone and took the trap away, and the horse and groom, a dejected couple, started on the walk home. Mr. Biggs, who met them on his return journey, was still smiling broadly when he rejoined his employer.

  “I couldn’t say much before a lady, sir,” he said, as Carstairs got into the car, “but it was their fault; the horse danced about all over the road. I’ve drove a car for six years now and never touched anything yet.